The next twenty riders deliberately missed out the moat, or retired before they reached it. Gradually the familiar objects in the room reasserted themselves: the Lionel Edwards prints on the walls, the tattered piles of Horse and She was certainly one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. For there, holding Hardy’s dark blue sweat rug, tall and golden as a Lombardy poplar in autumn, stood Dino Ferranti.
Joanna Baltic had interviewed Jake for the Chronicle, gushing over his romantic gipsy looks. As she slumped on the bed, Fen felt the Games had lost any importance. There was an old grandmother there; she taught me about all the medicines she’d learnt from her great-grandmother. And there was the telegram he’d sent yesterday saying he was coming home early, unopened.
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